


The Space Between Us

by MistressOfMalplaquet



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Comics!Betty, Comics!Jughead, F/M, bughead - Freeform, comics characters meet Riverdale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2019-08-18 18:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16522502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressOfMalplaquet/pseuds/MistressOfMalplaquet
Summary: When Jughead and Betty escape the comics, they end up in a dark version of Riverdale. There they encounter nightmares like the Gargoyle King and the unescapable fact that in this strange universe, they're paired together.With no one else to rely on, Betty and Jughead must save their counterparts, figure out how to return to their own world, and solve the biggest puzzle of all: each other.





	1. Chapter 1

 

It’s only been a month, but Jughead is fed-up. The Power That Be have paired him with Trula again, which is always exhausting. The storyline finally reaches the usual ending – his plan fails, Trula outwits him – and he slams out of Riverdale High to the usual Riverdale hangout.

He’s not alone in Pops. Betty slumps over a milkshake, her skin winter-pale. She’s wearing a t-shirt with stripes the colors of Neapolitan ice-cream, and that has to be the reason Jughead’s mouth waters. It’s the thought of ice-cream, not Betty. She’s his oldest friend. She’s the only reason he can stay sane. She's nothing more than that.

“Tough run?” he sympathizes, flopping into her booth.

“Juggie!” Betty scrubs her cheeks quickly and flashes a wide smile. “I didn't see you come in. Here, have a milkshake on me.”

“Don’t do that.” Under the table, Jughead nudges her mary-jane with his sneaker. “Don’t pretend to be fine when you’re not.”

Betty slumps in her seat and closes her eyes for a moment. “It’s just so endless. My story was about my ridiculous plans to win Archie, and of course he just left with Veronica as usual.” She shakes her head and pushes the milkshake closer to his elbow. “How about you?”

“Trula.”

“Oh no, not the dreaded Plot Twyst.” Her cool fingers slide over his. “I’m sorry.”

Jughead watches the way those long lashes flutter over the violet petals under her eyes. “You want to get out of here? We’ve got a few days before the next run. Want to sneak off with me through the space between the comics panels and bowl a few frames or something?”

She grins. “And get a greasy pizza and fries between games? Sounds perfect.”

#

Riverdale Bowl is empty except for Midge, who’s working the shoes. She hands Jughead two pairs, jerks her thumb at the deserted lanes, and tells him to bowl as long as he wants. “Guess everyone else is at the movies,” she adds. "Maybe you two should head over as well."

“The movies! Do they offer secondhand shoes and box pizza? No, they do not.” Jughead winks at Midge, grabs the shoes, and heads over to Lane 11 where Betty is deciding which ball to use. She hefts a sparkly purple number 7, seems to consider, and plucks a plain black number with graffiti art on one side out of the rack.

“What’s that?” Jughead points to the symbol, a triangle with three dots on top.

Betty shrugs. “Either some street artist had his way with it, or this is a fancy new bowling ball that’s going to kick your butt.”

“My butt, huh? I don't think so.”

“Think again. You're going down.” Quickly they lace up their shoes, and Jughead waves Betty to take the first turn. “Always the gentleman,” she giggles, hefting her graffiti ball.

“But of course, fair lady, this troubadour is nothing if not chivalrous…” Jughead stops and peers at the lane. “Betts,” he adds. “Do those pins look strange to you?”

“Pins? Oh, I see what you mean. There are – 1, 2, 3 – eleven of them. That’s weird. Should we tell Midge?”

“I guess we could – oh. She’s gone.” The shoe desk is deserted, as well as the snack bar. In fact, Jughead and Betty are the only ones left in the bowling alley. The place is silent except for a strange, whistled tune (is it Clementine?) crackling over the ancient speakers. “Was there a free pizza convention and no one bothered to tell us?”

“Of course not!” Betty slides him a side glance. “You’d have sniffed it out ages ago.”

“Madam, I’ll have you know this nose is a finely-tuned instrument.”

“It’s an instrument all right.” Betty holds up the ball, spins it so the triangular graffiti faces outward, and squints professionally at the eleven pins. “If my calculations are correct, I’ll need 17% more momentum plus a slight left side-spin to get a strike with an extra pin.” She steps up to the alley, swings back with perfect form, and releases. The bowling ball hurtles down the lane, seeming to gather momentum. It heads straight for the pins, and they explode on impact.

Betty whoops, jumps up and down, mock-slugs Jughead on the shoulder. “Did you see that? Didja? Huh? That was eleven pins, mister. That’s more than a strike. That was a – a Kaboomie! That’s what I’m going to call the sweet bowling move I just pulled off.”

He’s about to argue that No it isn’t, a Kaboomie is when your ball leaps to the next lane and takes down those pins as well, when the gate swings down to clear the alley. It stops, and the strange whistling Clementine ceases as well. The entire alley seems to freeze in time.

Jughead squats down and points forward. “Is there a door back there?”

“A door? Of course not. There can’t be a door at the end of the…” Betty kneels next to him. “Actually, you’re right. There _is_ a door there. And it’s open! And I can see stars and a moon.”

“And houses. And trees.” He stands and helps her up. “What’s behind Riverdale Bowl, Betts?”

“The Twilight parking lot,” she says. “No trees, no houses, certainly no stars. You can’t see anything beyond that massive silver screen.”

Jughead nods. His nose is twitching, and it’s not for pepperoni pie. Something strange has just happened in the Riverdale Bowl, and he’s determined to discover what it is.

Both he and Betts have bowled there for decades, and they know every inch of the place. The lanes are made of highly polished wood. Several of their friends have wiped out on the boards: Reggie,Archie with regularity, and once Moose nearly brought down the entire Bowl by flipping mid-air before landing on his backside.

“We’ll just go and check it out quickly.” Betty slips one arm through the strap of her backpack.

“Okay.” Carefully Jughead tiptoes down the edge of the bowling lane. “You’re as curious as a cat. Did you know that?”

“Look who’s talking, Sherlock! You were ready to investigate before I could say My Dear Watson.” Betty slithers behind him, staying away from the slippery center.

“Sh.” At the end of the lane, Betty’s strange ball is on one side, still spinning from the force of her throw. “That’s odd. Don’t bowling balls go straight into the, um, the bowling-ball-return-thingamabob and get sent back to the rack?”

“Excellent technical explanation, but you’re right.” Betty scoops up her ball and balances it between elbow and waist. “And look through there! You can see the houses more clearly now. And a sign, it says – huh. It says Riverdale, the Town with Pep.”

“Sounds like an elaborate joke. Do you think Dilton could have set up an alternate reality behind the bowling alley to mess with us? Better let me take the lead…” As he speaks, the night is rent by a piercing scream, followed by several shots. Jughead feels the blood drain from his face, and he turns to Betty. “On second thought, ladies first.”

She clicks her tongue and slides out of the strange door. It’s rusted and scratched on one side, reminiscent of huge beasts with massive claws.

Betty doesn’t pay attention. Pulling Jughead with her through to the space behind the alley, she scans the view. “It’s Riverdale all right, but the Twilight’s gone. Look, the entire drive-in has been demolished! Who would do such a terrible thing? There’s the high school, and – oh, thank God. Pops’ Chocklit Shoppe.”

Relief warms Jughead’s belly. “As long as there are milkshakes in the world, we’ll be okay.” Betty takes an impulsive step forward, but he pulls her back. “Just kidding! Sheesh! Think I want to head down into that hell-town with its screams and gunshots? And look at that glow over there. I think it’s an actual dumpster fire.”

Betty’s eyes narrow as she peers in that direction. “It _does_ like a dumpster fire. What happened to our town?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out. Let’s just head back into the bowling alley.”

“I suppose that would be the smartest thing to do.” With great reluctance, Betty turns away from the dark version of the town they’re both used to. Obviously she’s dying to check it out.

Jughead’s not about to let that happen. “Oh, no you don’t. This is our time off, Betts. If you head down there, I bet we’ll be propelled into another weird mystery and I’ll have to pursue some odd female and you’ll end up with Archie until he abandons you for Veronica – again.” He puts one hand on the small of her back and guides her firmly back through the strange door. “Could we just go and bowl a few more frames? I’ll treat for pizza pie once we find Midge.”

Although his brutal recap of their lives has made her droop, Betty forces a smile and nods. “Okay, sounds good. Do you actually have money, though?”

“I have credit,” Jughead announces grandly, “which is almost as good as cold hard cash…”

His words die out. They peer through the strange door into Riverdale Bowl, which has morphed into a nightmare. The entire place lies in darkness, looking as though a bomb has gone off inside. Bowling balls and pins litter the lanes, pitted with disuse. The only sound comes from a tinny speaker, hanging from a wire from the ceiling. Jughead recognizes the coda from Clementine, whistled over and over again. “Oh my darling,” the radio tootles over the wreckage of the Riverdale Bowl. “Oh my darling…oh my darling…oh my darling…”

Betty grabs his hand and pulls him through the door into the dark version of Riverdale. “I’m not staying there,” she hisses. “We’ll get sucked into Season 9 of American Horror Tale. Let’s double around to the front of the alley, find Midge, and head to Pops.”

Jughead supposes there isn’t any other choice. “Sounds like a plan.”

Betty settles her backpack and slips one hand into his. In this new, cold, strange world, she’s a reminder that everything might change, but Cooper is a constant. Under the starlight her eyes are huge as she inspects the walls of the Riverdale Bowl – crumbling, covered with more graffiti. Between scrawls of _Ghoulies Rule_ and _Geraldine Puts Out_ , he sees another of those triangles topped with three dots. The sight makes him shiver, and Jughead curls his thumb around Betty’s wrist, glad of her solid presence.

And then.

She.

Screams.

Jughead shouts as well, startled into breathlessness. “Jeeze, Cooper, wanna give me a heart-attack next time? Why are you screeching like that anyway?”

Betty doesn’t respond. She points to a patchy, scrubby little block of grass and weeds, probably an old garden.

Except it’s not a garden. The tiny square is filled with stones that slope like bad teeth, and he’s so unnerved it takes a moment to realize what they are.

“Graves,” he says. “It’s a graveyard. Just when you think this situation couldn’t get any creepier…”

“Jug,” Betty interrupts. “Look.” She switches on her phone and shines its light on the nearest stone. There are the usual dates, as well as a name:

MIDGE KLUMP.

#

It’s easy enough to navigate this dark version of Riverdale. The streets are the same as the town Jughead has known forever, and the names on the mailboxes are identical. He sees Keller, followed by Andrews and Cooper. But the people he and Betty see on the streets look like shadows that flash to one side and disappear when you look straight at them. None of them talk, not until Jughead nearly walks into an elderly lady rolling down the street in an antique wheelchair. The woman stops her chair and looks up. One eye is milky, the other sharp as though she could see into their souls.

“Go back,” she hisses as Jughead and Betty pass her on the sidewalk. “Now. Go back to where you came from. You’re not from here. Go back.”

He tries to stammer out a reply, but already the old woman has moved on with one vicious push of her chair.

“Who was that?” Betty whispers. “Think we should follow her in case she needs help?”

“We’ve reached your house,” he whispers back. “Maybe we can just go in and get our bearings.”

She wavers, placing her foot on the first step and withdrawing it. “It doesn’t look the same. I’m frightened, Juggie.” About to tell her that it’s going to be fine, what could be more normal and reassuring than the Coopers after all? when he hears a sound from the backyard. It sounds like a chant, alien and incomprehensible as though it comes from a far planet or the ocean’s unknown depths.

“Is that a movie?” Betty’s eyes are huge. “Maybe Dad’s just watching a horror flick, although baseball’s more his style…”

“I don’t think it’s a movie. It’s really happening. People are in your yard speaking in tongues or some such nonsense.” He grabs her hand, swings her off the steps, and propels her past the Andrews home. “Let’s go to my place, order some food, get some sleep before figuring out how to get back to our own …”

“…Our own universe,” Betty supplies. “You're right.”

There are lights on at Archie’s home, silhouetting a boy at the window. “Should we go and talk to him?” Jughead points to the broad-shouldered shape. “Arch is my best friend, after all.”

“Any other day I’d say yes, of course we should confide in Archie.” Betty wheels around and points to the stars. “But look - True North is different here. Have you noticed?”

She’s right. Polaris has shifted in this world. It no longer lines up with the bowl of the Big Dipper and doesn’t sit near the center of the sky’s rotation. He shakes his head and makes a quick decision. “Let’s stick to our original plan.”

“Okay.” Betty’s eyes crinkle in a smile, and for a moment Jughead thinks _What the hell, let Polaris go die, I’ve found my guiding star,_ except that thought is so sappy he’d never say it.

Never.

They head to the corner where Jughead lives. Every line of the Jones place is familiar: the marks where Hot Dog gnawed on the hinge, where Gladys spilled a pot of marinara sauce, where Jellybean drew stick figures of Mom and Dad and Jughead in purple crayon. He can picture his home, a shabby little palace in the middle of darkness.

But when they reach his block, the Jones residence has completely disappeared. In its place is a lot littered with Cometbucks cups and striped candy wrappers. A sulky sign proclaims stuck into frozen dirt proclaims “Yet Another Lodge Revitalization Project!”

Jughead stops, feeling his stomach ice with fear. “Gladys,” he gasps. “Jelly…”

“Don’t worry.” Betty puts one arm around his waist and gives him a firm hug. “We’ll our way back to your family, I promise. But for now we have to look for a different place to stay. I’m so sorry.”

He pretends to study the Lodge sign while he wipes away scalding tears. Like the stellar friend she is, Betty kneels and examines one of the candy wrappers as though it’s the most fascinating thing in the world until he gets himself under control. “We need to head towards the river,” Betty says to the candy wrapper. “Being in this version of Riverdale is creepy.”

“So we run into some dark woods instead. Good call, _not.”_ Sadness and shock have made Jughead grumpy. “Where are we going to sleep, in a tree? After chowing bark sandwiches and leaf soup?”

“We could go to Ben Button’s bunker.”

“In the middle of the woods with no lights, no heat, no hamburgers?” Jughead is appalled. “Are you out of your mind, woman? There’s no way I’ll waltz off to a tin can buried underground and filled with ghouls and whatnot. If you think Jughead Jones will just follow you into the mouth of hell, you are sadly mistaken…”

This dignified speech is cut off by another scream, followed by a series of unearthly growls and more gunshots. Jughead finds Betty’s hand, laces his fingers through hers, and pulls her out of the grisly little lot that had once been his home into the street. “Bike,” Betty pants. Sure enough, there’s a bicycle stranded at the end of a driveway, one wheel still spinning as though the unknown rider had leapt off mid-ride and run away to safety. It has a flowered basket in the front, and the pink saddle is emblazoned with cartoon kittens.

Jughead seizes one handlebar and jumps onto the seat. Betty stands on the frame behind, winds one arm around his neck, and hisses for him to hit the road.

He’s already peddling as if his life depended on it. The bike is too small, making his knees stick out on both sides like toast points. _Good thing Arch can’t see me now,_ he thinks idiotically. _I’d never hear the end of it._ He can picture Archie’s mirth: the way his best friend would clutch his stomach, fall on the floor, roll around with laughter at the pink roses and glittery kittens.

“Nicely done,” Betty says in his ear. “Oops, it’s a bit bumpy, isn’t it? Hey, turn down that little dirt road. It goes straight down to the woods.”

“As long as the map of this Riverdale follows our town. Already we’ve run into several grim differences: the graveyard and my house.”

“But everything is in the right place,” Betty insists, her voice jerking as they bowl over stones and branches. “Have you noticed? Even the graveyard was the proper shape. It took the place of the Twilight’s snack bar, that’s all. But I’ve been tracking the town, and the basic grid is exactly the same.”

“Well done, Nancy Drew. Uh, I think we’re going to have to walk here. And it’s dark. And I’m secure enough in my manhood to admit I’m scared.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got a bright flashlight in my pack, plus just maybe I brought along some sandwiches and cookies and chips.”

He flings down the bike, steps over it with a single stride, and wraps one arm around Betty’s waist. “If anyone ever says you’re not the best girl in Riverdale, you can send them along to me and I shall shake one finger at them quite sternly.”

“And tut-tut?” Betty giggles.

“Indeed. I shall blow a raspberry at… Cripes! Criminy! Betty, I just walked into a spider-web.” Jughead shudders and spends the next minute swiping at his face.

“My hero! Oh, stop dancing around like that. It’s just a tiny spider, c’mon.”

Following the wavering beam of Betty’s flashlight, Jughead steps through the woods. He resists the impulse to squeal at blowing leaves and drooping twigs. By this point he’s convinced everything in the area is a massive tarantula with poisonous fangs.

“It should be over here.” Betty holds up a compass that’s appeared from nowhere, because of course she just happens to have one. The world could be ending and Cooper would pull out a slide-rule to figure out how much time was left. “Stop moaning like that. Spiders sleep at night, you know.”

“Is that true?” he demands. “Or did you just invent a factoid to try and make me feel better?”

“Maybe.” She slides him a sly glance. “Did it work?”

“Nope. I’m still as lily-livered as ever…” Jughead’s insult is cut off as his toe catches a protrusion on the ground. He nearly pitches forward and loses his hat in the process. “Gosh, did you see that? My whole life flashed before my eyes! I just nearly died.”

She ignores him and kneels down. “I think this is the opening for the bunker. Nice job, Sherlock – you’ve found it!” Shoving her phone into a back pocket, Betty grasps a metal wheel sticking up from a pile of blown pine-needles. “But you’d think it would be buried or at least rusted out. This looks polished, almost new.”

Jughead squats next to her and gives the wheel an experimental tug. It moves easily under his hands. “Looks like it’s been oiled as well,” he muses. “Are you sure you want to go down here? Bearded ruffians could be waiting for us in the dark.”

In the black of the woods he can feel Betty’s palpitating curiosity. “I can’t wait to see what’s inside.”

He collapses and leans on one elbow. “Maybe we could rest here for a minute and, you know, sort of check out the food you brought along in your backpack.”

Betty leans forward and points into the darkness behind him. “What was that?”

“What?” Jughead leaps up. “Spiders? Did we wake them up?”

Whatever is standing among the trees isn’t a spider. Jughead gets the confused impression of branched horns and a face made of bones. The thing, whatever it is, spreads huge arms and begins to move towards them.

Without hesitation, Betty undoes the hatch leading to the bunker. “Now,” she grits out. “Get in here _now_ , Jug.”

He leaps in behind her and pulls the hatch closed behind them. As it slides home, Jughead gets one final look at the thing, its huge skull-face and robes blowing in the wind. Then the door shuts with a muffled clang, and the skull-monster is gone.

Ahead of him, Betty descends and jumps into the room before pulling out her flashlight. “Candles,” she says. “That’s handy. A table too. And some, well, those are pin-up girls on the wall. Huh! Never thought of Dilton as a boob man, but I guess you never know.”

“Betts.” Jughead tumbles down the ladder and puts one hand on her shoulder. She’s trembling, and as he repeats her name her face crumples. “Oh, hey. It’s outside, whatever the thing was we just saw. It can’t get in here. We’re safe.” She leans into him, wraps both arms around his middle, and snuffles into his shirt. “That’s right,” Jughead murmurs. “Always hated this stupid t-shirt. You just cry all you want, and Gladys’ll have to use the darn thing for dusting.”

With a watery chuckle, Betty steps back and scrubs her face with one sleeve. “I’ll be fine. You light those candles, and we’ll have a drink and some sandwiches.”

“Okay.” He finds a box of safety matches beside the display of candle-ends and starts to light them. The flame wavers, and Jughead realizes he’s shaking as well.

“There’s a bed in the corner. With a pile of – fresh sheets?” Betty points to a pile of what looks like crisp linens folded into perfect squares. “And there’s a note on top. Oh, wow! And you’re not going to believe this.”

She holds up an envelope. Printed on the front in neat capitals is his name: JUGHEAD.

“Oh.” He takes the crisp note, written on pale green stationary with what looks like a fountain pen. “Should I open it? Yeah? Okay, I’ll open it.”

He wrestles the envelope and pulls out a folded note:

 

 

 

 

 

> Hey Juggie,
> 
> Obviously you couldn’t get away today to meet me here in our place, and I can’t help wondering where you are. Perhaps you’re with your sister, or perhaps you and Archie are on the road. Whatever your quest may be, I’m sending you the very best of luck. Not that you need it, since that amazing brain of yours will see you through whatever comes up.
> 
> In the meantime, I’m planning all the places to leave kisses when we see each other next. The back of your neck always makes you shiver (especially when I use my teeth) or that soft spot right behind your ear. And then I’m going to push you back on the bed so we can explore each other in that slow way you like, and when we’re finished I’ll show you my new theory about G&G.
> 
> I remain, now and forever,
> 
> Your Betty
> 
>  

“What does it say?”

Jughead blinks and realizes that Betty is bouncing on her toes like a curious terrier. What he’s just read is baffling, but the words still make his cheeks flame with surprise and… something else he can’t name. “Oh, nothing.” Quickly he folds the letter, intending to stash it in his pocket.

“What? You can’t just whisk it away. It’s a note from another dimension, which means I’ve got to read it.” Betty feints, plucks the letter from his hands, and dodges his attempts to get it back. She always has been a nimble little vixen.

“Gosh. Look at that. Gosh. I - gosh.” Betty scans the sheet and collapses on the bed, seems to realize where she’s sitting, and hops up as though the mattress is stuffed with hot coals. “Guess that in this universe, you and I are sort of kind of together.”

“Yeah.” Jughead clears his throat and attempts to laugh with nonchalance, but it emerges as a hideous cackle. “Crazy stuff, eh? Last thing you’d ever expect! I mean, that’s just nuts!”

“Yeah.” Turning her back on him, Betty picks up her backpack, unzips it, and pulls out the graffiti-covered bowling ball. “Don’t ask me why I brought this thing along. Just seemed important at the time, but I’ll probably ditch it later. Anyway, food, right? I’m hungry, and I bet you’re starving.”

“I could eat Secretariat.” Jughead catches Betty’s wondering frown, and he hastens to add, “You know, the horse? I meant I could eat a – never mind.” As he sits next to her at a rickety little table, he feels like they’re two strangers on the most awkward date in history.

The bowling ball has squished her picnic food. Betty spends the next five minutes apologizing until Jughead tells her to stop. Silence descends in the tiny bunker, punctuated only by the sounds of chewing and Jughead’s muffled burp. When he drops the cap to his water bottle, it falls on the floor with Ping that makes them both jump.

“Sorry.” Jughead leans over with a grunt, scrabbles for the lid, and sees Betty’s feet. She’s got one ankle crossed behind the other, and her shoes are cream striped with crimson while his are striped in hideous green and brown. “Uh, Betty, we’re still wearing bowling shoes.”

She stops chewing, frowns, and looks down. A moment passes before Betty starts to laugh while trying not to choke on her turkey and cheese. Her cheeks turn bright red, and she has to cover her mouth with both hands. "Bowling shoes!" she gurgles. "Classic! What a great pair of detectives we make!"

It’s infectious. Jughead finds he’s snorting along with her, and when she falls out of her chair to lie on the floor clutching her stomach, he has to wipe away actual tears. “Stunning footwear!” he crows. “This season Miss Cooper sports the very finest in rental shoes, sprayed out by the best fungicide in Riverdale…”

“Stop,” Betty begs. “I can’t breathe. I’m going to lose it.”

“What will she display on her twinkling toes tomorrow?” Jughead continues mercilessly. “Ski boots? Roller blades?”

“I’ll roller blade your face.” She sits up and attempts to tickle him, but he twists away last minute. “Now your punishment is you have to make the bed.”

Grinning, Jughead shovels in the last of his sandwich. The crisp sheets smell like lemons. Betty joins him to snap the fitted corners in place, smooth the top sheet under a few worn blankets, and settle the only pillow. When they’re done, she nods with satisfaction, steps back, and picks up her backpack. “Think I saw a tiny bathroom in the back, so I’ll check out supplies and if there’s running water. Be back in a jiff.”

He sketches a salute and picks up his jacket. If he folds it into a square, it’ll work as a pillow. Maybe Betty will lend him her coat as a half-blanket, and of course she can have the bed.

With these plans in place, Jughead lies on the floor and settles into human paperclip position. It’s not wonderful, but he’s slept in worse places. Besides, he tells himself, it’s only for one night. When the morning comes they’ll figure out how to return to their own version of Riverdale.

Between finishing the plot arc with Trula, bowling, and the nightmare outside the bunker, Jughead is exhausted. He closes his eyes and feels himself drifting away. “My son might not be a great athlete,” Gladys has declared, “but no one can beat him for eating or sleeping.”

“Jughead Jones!”

He sits up, mind whirling. Where is he again? Oh yes, in the bunker with Betty. And she stands in front of him, arms folded and looking none too pleased. “Whass wrong?” he asks.

“We’re in an alternate universe trapped by a monster inside an underground bunker,” Betty hisses. “If you think for one minute I’m sleeping alone…” She stops. “Juggie, please? I know I _seem_ calm and collected, but – I’m scared. Would you mind?”

“What?” Painfully Jughead gets up and indicates the bed. “You mean, here? You and me? Kinda small, isn’t it?”

“We’re both string beans, so I don’t see the problem.” Betty hands him a small object before climbing on the bed, removing the bowling shoes, and sliding into the blankets with a long Ahhh. “It’s new,” she adds. “There were a couple in the bathroom. Whoever this Betty is, I approve of her.”

She’s given him a toothbrush, pristine inside its box. Jughead raises both eyebrows and heads to the bathroom, which is just what anyone would expect: small as train latrine, rusty around the corners, smelling like bleach and scouring powder.

When he’s as clean as possible from splashing water and brushing teeth, Jughead emerges. The candles are extinguished except for one small flame on a table by the bed. Betty is a lump under the sheets.

Sheepishly he removes his shoes and slides in next to her. “Mm,” Betty exhales. “You’re warm. ‘M cold, Juggie.”

As if from some forgotten impulse, Jughead slides one arm around her waist and the other under her neck. She still has her hair in the usual ponytail, and gently he undoes the bow so the long, golden locks tumble free.

“Feels good,” Betty murmurs. “So glad I’m with you and not…” Her breathing evens out, and she emits a tiny snore.

One curl has escaped behind her ear. He doesn’t know why, but Jughead presses forward and touches his lips to it: not a kiss, just wanting to see what it feels like against his mouth. Her hair is soft, the skin of her shoulder impossibly smooth.

Outside, a giant with the face of a skull waits. They have no more food. The town is a nightmare. Even true North has changed.

Holding Betty’s slender body, Jughead slides into deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my wonderful friend itllbeyou, who made this gorgeous cover image for my story.


	2. Chapter 2

Gabbling nonsense about bowling balls and trees that walk in the night, Jughead sits bolt upright in the narrow bed and hears some idiot spewing nonsense about bowling balls and trees that walk in the night. It takes him a minute to realize he's the idiot babbling about balls and forestry.

“Hey, Juggie.” Betty sits at the bunker's tiny table, her face practically smushed inside the eternal backpack. She digs out the rest of the contents and spreads them out: two water bottles, a few granola bars, the last of the sandwiches. Even in the musty underground bunker she seems to shimmer with cleanliness. Her hair is up in two pigtails, and she’s found a new shirt.

“Hey Betts.” Jughead yawns and thrusts his feet out of the blankets. It’s chilly in the underground space, and he wishes they could lie down together for a few more hours. Betty had been a warm weight in his arms during the night, and sleeping next to her had been far more comfortable than he had expected. “Making breakfast?”

She nods and frowns into the innards of the backpack. Jughead has known Betty long enough to instantly recognize her moods, and he can see she needs space. So he mumbles something about brushing and teeth and slouches off to the tiny sink, where he spends the next few minutes splashing cold water on various parts of his body. Just as he’s about to emerge, a pair of underwear sails through the curtain divider. “Found extras in a box on the shelves,” Betty calls. “They look clean, and they’re marked with your name. So I think they’re safe. Did I mention I really like this other Betty?”

Grinning, Jughead changes his clothes. Betty waits with another limp garment, a worn-looking S t-shirt. “That’s definitely mine," he says. "Whoever this other Jughead is, he’s got taste. Bet he’s insanely good-looking, too.”

Betty laughs, but her humor sounds forced. Jughead approaches slowly, turns one of the chairs backwards, and straddles the seat to face her. “Betts,” he adds in a lower tone. “You’re worried about something. What is it?”

“This is the last of our food.” Betty pushes a paper plate forward, dotted with half a granola bar, the last sandwich, and a few cheese crackers. “If we don’t make it back today we’ll have enough for only one more meal, and a small one at that.”

“We’ll make it back. And even if we don’t, we can just buy some provisions. Don’t you just love that word, provisions? Makes us sound like a couple of explorers…” Too late, Jughead remembers the moth-ridden state of his wallet. “Uh, Betts. Do you happen to have any money?”

“That’s the second problem.” Betty produces a slim wallet from the front pocket of her backpack and opens it to reveal the contents. In the little plastic sleeves Jughead sees old photos of Archie, Veronica, and one of him with Betty at the beach. They’re sitting on a piece of driftwood, squinting into the sun and laughing at the photographer.

“It doesn't make sense,” she adds. “I just got paid for baby-sitting a few days ago, plus I got some birthday money so I should have plenty of cash. But look at it.” She produces a salad of bills. Jughead’s about to high five her for being excellent, but she throws the little pile on the table. “They’re all like that.”

The money has somehow turned into  plain green paper, small rectangles marked with a dollar sign. Betty’s little stash is worthless. “What the heck? Do you think we really are in a new dimension, and the journey out of the bowling alley actually changed those bills? This is Alice Through the Looking Glass stuff. I mean, physical items changing their appearance? It’s impossible.” Jughead feels himself starting to hyperventilate, and he peels open a granola bar.

“Is it?” Betty digs out a hand-mirror and slaps it into Jughead’s palm. “Take a look.”

Confused, Jughead scowls into the little glass. His reflection scowls back – pale face under the usual shock of black hair and crown hat. But at some point a little triangle of moles has bloomed on one cheek, his ears don’t stick out as much as usual, and the magnificent nose Reggie likes to insult seems to have shrunk. He drops the mirror and turns to Betty, aghast. “Do I look different? I think I look different. I’ve changed, Betty. My cheeks! My ears! My nose! I’m not the godlike specimen you’ve come to love over the years.”

Betty picks up the mirror, closes one eye, and considers her own image. “How about me? Have I changed?”

Taking a healthy bite of granola, Jughead peers at her. “You look good.” Her skin is smooth, hair brushed into the flippy pigtails. "But you always look good." She flaps one hand wearily at him, picks up her half-sandwich, and tries one careful bite.

“Stale?” Jughead sympathizes. “Listen, why don’t we walk into Riverdale and see if we can pick up a few quick jobs? Yes, I know I can’t use my usual tricks to get free food, but if we work and earn money we can buy groceries or even have a full meal at Pops.”

“Burgers,” Betty says dreamily, “with fries and a milkshake.”

Jughead swallows the last of his granola bar and springs to his feet. “Now you're talking my language. Guess we have to go and add to the country’s economy with gainful employment.”

“And return that bike we stole.” Betty stashes her bowling ball in the backpack, slings it over one shoulder, and gives Jughead a watery smile. “I'm ready.”

#

Their new enthusiasm is dampened by the weather, a heavy downpour that spitefully intensifies when they emerge from the bunker and head towards town. Jughead shakes one fist at the sky. "Perfect, just perfect. We were missing the complete Northern Gothic experience, so thanks for that."

After leaving the bike at the end of the owner's driveway, Jughead turns up his collar and thrusts both hands into his pockets. “Guess we could try the diner. Maybe Pop’ll let me wash dishes.” Splashing elbows-deep in more water doesn’t sound appealing, but at least the suds will be warmer than icy rain.

“Good plan.” Betty produces an umbrella from nowhere and takes his arm so they can both shelter under it. “And I can wait a few tables or pick up some babysitting.”

“A pair of regular financial geniuses, that’s what we are.” They walk for a while in comfortable silence, and Jughead reflects how awesome it is to have Betty to himself. Even if they’re in a dark upside-down version of their own town, he gets to be part of a duo with Cooper for a while. Of course they hang out together anyway, but there’s always someone wanting Betty’s time: Veronica will run up with a problem or Archie plops into trouble that only Betty or Jughead can solve. Walking with her little hand tucked into the crook of his elbow warms Jughead from the inside as though he just ate a huge bowl of pasta - even if his shoes are getting soggy from the endless rain.

Outside the Coopers’ house Betty pauses and looks up at her bedroom window. “I could try knocking on the door,” she says.

Jughead hums, feeling prickles of doubt. Her house is silent, and the curtains are all pulled shut. It’s like looking at the face of a corpse with its eyelids weighted down by pennies. If they go inside, it might be like walking inside a crypt with bleeding bodies and hooded mass-murderers. “Whew!” he says. “I vote No Way. This place is making me all melancholy and giving me deep thoughts. I’ll turn into a hipster if we stay much longer.”

“Not that, anything but that! Besides, you’re probably just hungry.” Betty laughs up into his face before going up on tiptoe and presses her lips to his cheek. “I’m glad you’re here, Jug. It would have been excruciating to do this alone.”

He wants to admit he feels the same way, but Betty’s fleeting kiss makes him too giddy to speak. By the time he’s recovered, they’ve arrived at Pop’s.

#

Betty and Jughead still seem to be invisible to the town's inhabitants. They sit in the back corner, but the waitress studiously ignores them. Even Pop, who looks as lovable and friendly as ever, walks by them without a word. When the man leans over to wipe the table with a white cloth, a light frown stitches his brow. Jughead catches one last puzzled glance at their booth before Pop walks back to the counter. The bell jingles with an entering customer, but Jughead doesn't pay attention. He watches as Pop takes an order from a dark-haired waitress and begins to scoop ice cream into a blender.

“Is that Veronica?” Jughead points to the black-haired girl.

Turning, Betty considers the waitress. “I think you’re right. But Veronica would never…”

“You don’t belong here.” The diner's new arrival is the old woman they met the night before. Her wheelchair screeches in protest as she rolls it forward to stop by the booth. “Told you already. It's dangerous if you stay. You should go back.”

“How the hell are we going to do that?”

Jughead bites his tongue when Betty places a cool palm over his hand. “We didn't get to introduce ourselves last night,” she smiles. Jughead recognizes this look, her professional Adult Circus Tamer Expression. “I'm Betty, and this is Jughead. Could you please tell us who you are and why you keep warning us?”

The woman seems to relent under the swift dart of Betty’s charm, although her milky stare frosts Jughead to the bone. “My surname is Blossom. I am the head of the Blossom household. You need to leave soon, or the Unwinding will take hold and you won’t be able to go back.”

_Cheryl’s family,_ Jughead thinks. It explains a lot.

“We’re trying, I promise. Do you have any ideas how we can return? And what is Undwinding?” Betty’s smile wobbles, but she leans forward as if she and Matriarch Blossom are old friends.

“The Undwinding’s already begun.” Mrs. Blossom jabs a thumb in the direction of Jughead’s face. “There, and there. You’re losing yourself, you see? Becoming something you’re not. But there’s a reason you’ve been brought here - a task you must accomplish.”

It’s all very Betty Potter and the Bowling Alley of Azkaban, but at least they’re finally getting some information. “What task?” Jughead’s voice sounds like a lost marble that’s been sucked up by a vacuum cleaner.

The woman ignores him and speaks to Betty. “I don’t know, child. It should be revealed any minute now.”

“So we have to wait for a mysterious task,” Jughead gripes, “and meanwhile we’re being Unwound? Not to mention Unhinged, Unwashed, and Unfed.”

“Mrs. Blossom,” Betty interrupts. “I don’t suppose you’d know of any jobs we could do while we wait for this important task? We’re both strong and happy to help out with anything. The truth is we need to earn some cash so we can get food and a place to stay while we’re lost here in this version of Riverdale. If we don't, we're going to starve.”

Blossom stares, unblinking, at Betty for what feels like an eternity. Jughead hears the muffled clink of forks on plates, smells the heartbreaking odor of frying burgers, sees the Veronica look-alike stack donuts in a neat pyramid before capping them with a glass dome. “I suppose I could use some help,” the woman declares. “You could dust the photos, sort my Victrola recordings, polish the silver…”

“We could do that!” Betty bounces out of her seat. “We’ll get it all done in a few hours.”

“Not the boy.” Hellhound Blossom flicks her gaze over Jughead before spinning away from him to face Betty. “Just you.”

#

Jughead once learned the secret of rising tension: imagine the worst thing possible that could happen to a character and then make it happen. If that’s so, he’s riding a rollercoaster car up Tension Mountain. He stands outside in the rain with no money in his pocket, food in his belly, or Betty on his arm.

Jughead glares at a poster advertising a Farm complete with smiling goats and considers his options. He _could_ hike back to that driveway, steal the kid’s bike once more, and head to the bunker. There he could eat all the remaining granola bars and nap for the rest of the day. Betty is about to earn some money, and she’ll buy them dinner. But he can picture the bright look in her eyes as she wakes him, as he shuffles out of bed and slumps in a chair, the way she’d turn away to hide her disappointment as a friend betrays her – again.

What would Reggie do in this case? Probably bust his way into a house and make things worse. Dilton would build an incredible and unnecessary machine. Archie would plunge into a few fights and get into more difficulties.

And Betty – what would she do?

He thinks of what he called her the night before: Nancy Drew. It's obvious what she'd do. Betty would walk around Riverdale and hunt for clues.

With a sigh, Jughead heads away from Pop’s Diner to the place where his house should be. Maybe he’ll find his dad or mom. Maybe the Jones clan is rich in this world.

Jughead could be a prince! Or a king!

Excitement spikes through him, and he walks a few blocks to the empty lot. The Lodge Industries sign still sits in the middle of the lot, and in one far corner an abandoned truck bears the words Andrews Construction on its flank.

The sight of the empty lot seems unreal, like gauze laid over reality. There should be pots of geraniums on the porch steps and a pie cooling in a windowsill with a homemade sign in Gladys’s writing: _Do Not Touch, This Means You Jughead._ His dad’s clunky car should be parked in the driveway, the garage door open to reveal shelves of accumulated family treasures like photo albums and Jughead’s old skis.

Ivy and clematis would grow up one side of the house and lead the observer’s eye to the back. There he would find the tiny deck where his dad grilled burgers in the summer, flanked by Jellybean's wading pool. Gladys would hang out bedsheets on an actual line because she said it made them smell amazing. In the far corner where the Andrews Construction truck now sulks, there should be Jelly's swingset. Jughead used to push her on the glider and, when Betty came over, they’d swing idly and talk about books or future plans. Archie might join them if he didn’t have a date, or Toni would show up and steal Jughead’s last cupcake.

It had all been profoundly boring, a suburban dream. Now that it’s gone, Jughead realizes how beautiful that little backyard had been in all its prosaic glory, the setting sun highlighting Betty’s hair as if to say ‘This is your home.’

He feels hot tears on his cheeks blending with the cold rain. That old life seems only a breath away and yet impossible to reach at the same time. And Jelly – the loss of Jellybean cuts him to the core.

_When I get back,_ Jughead promises himself, _I’ll help Dad around the house more. Cut the grass for Mom. Play games with Jellybean until she belly-laughs._

They could do tag, Red Light Green Light, Mother May I, Statues. They could go on a pretend safari. And he could set up clues to help Jellybean dig up that treasure he buried all those years ago…

Jughead frowns. _Treasure._ He remembers it vaguely, the time he put a few weeks-worth of allowance money into a box and buried it in his backyard. It had been a silly prank, one in a long line of dumb adventures he had created just to be different.

Was there any chance the box was still there? Items had bled over from Jughead and Betty’s world into the dark’verse, as he now thinks of this place – most obviously the people he and Betty knew, but also the Bunker.

Maybe, and the thought gives him chills, items that are buried underground make it from one ‘verse to another. If that’s so, then the treasure Jughead buried all those years ago might still be in what once was his backyard.

It’s not a lot of money, only 13 dollars. Still, it would be immensely satisfying to present it to Betty and watch her light up with happiness because he'd actually accomplished something.

Holding his breath, Jughead tiptoes across the lot and goes to the construction truck. By some miracle the back of the truck bed actually holds a few tools including a shovel.

As usual in the dark’verse, the stray passers-by scurry away and don't pay any attention to him. Jughead leans over the side of the truck, picks up the shovel, and takes it to the back of the lot. He’s pretty sure the treasure is buried directly underneath the Lodge Enterprises sign.

Jughead drives the spade into the dirt and begins to dig. Sweat as well as rain pours into his eyes, and he has to keep shaking wet hair out of his vision. Eventually he’s able to dig out the sign, and he flings it across the lot. “Take that, Hiram Lodge,” he says with satisfaction.

He digs, stops to take a breather, digs again. Jughead’s muscles ache, and there’s a knifeblade of pain in his lower back. The cold makes him shake, but his head feels too hot, his mind buzzing with fever. He could give this up, just walk away and tell Betty he tried but no jobs were out there to be had.

“It’s okay, Juggie,” she would reply. “Don’t worry. I know you did your best.”

Groaning, Jughead heaves up more heaps of dirt. What feels like hours tick by. He encounters several tin cans, lots of worms, and a plastic doll’s head. It stares up at him balefully from the mud, accusing him of giving up.

“Not…giving…up…” With those words, Jughead’s stolen shovel clangs against metal. He settles his hat on his head, jumps into the hole he’s created, and scrabbles under the wet silt. “If it’s only a soup can,” he snarls, “I’m going to throw it through Archie’s window and steal the contents of his pantry.”

Instead of old tomato soup tins, he’s found an old cigar box wrapped in layers of plastic. Jughead pulls it out, wipes the thing gingerly on his sleeve, and shakes it experimentally. The box is heavier than he expects. He remembers the box, how his mother used to keep buttons in it but gave it to Jughead after he begged long enough. Its lid was decorated with cherubs around a señorita in a long black mantilla who simpered up at a dashing caballero.

Securing his treasure in the old messenger bag, Jughead cleans off as much mud as possible. The shovel goes back into the Andrews truck with a muffled clunk. He rotates his neck to ease his muscles and begins the long walk back to Pop’s.

#

When Jughead sees Betty in what seems to have become ‘their’ back booth, his heart lifts. Unfortunately the Blossom woman is there as well, but it doesn't ruin his mood. Jughead’s on a mission: he wants to find a private spot and open the treasure with Betty. Even if the contents are ruined by decades of weather, it will be a moment of sparkling happiness in the middle of this current nightmare.

But Betty sits upright in her seat, two bright pink spots in her cheeks as she talks to Mrs. Blossom. “Stop asking. I will _not_ accept your jewelry as payment.” Her words emerge as little snips of anger.

The old woman dangles a circle threaded on a gold chain under Betty’s nose. “I assure you it’s worth a great deal of money.”

“Absolutely not.” Betty shivers and hugs herself as though she cold. For a moment her eyes flicker as though she sees shadow-people in the corner. It almost seems like she's about to have a seizure.

Jughead can sympathize. The shivery fever that set in during his little archeological dig has returned, making the room flash in and out of reality.

Mrs. Blossom doesn’t notice. “Oh, look! That’s interesting. The ring says you’ve been brought here to right a wrong and repair a broken promise. See how the pendulum arcs over your palm? It tells me there are two quests you must accomplish, two parts of one whole. Good thing you’re carrying the key.”

Considering that he’s covered in mud and starving to death, Jughead has no time for these shenanigans. “What’s going on?” His interruption makes both of them jump.

Betty smiles at him, the wide grin he’s known all his life. “I went with Mrs. Blossom – sorry, I mean _Nana_ Blossom – to a place called Thistlehouse and did those chores. But it turns out she doesn’t have any money. Instead she’d trying to pay us with enough gold to buy a small airplane, and of course I refused. Nana, you should go and put that ring in the bank right now as a legacy for your family.”

“We don’t need an airplane,” Jughead points out, “just a room for the night. I don’t suppose you have any smaller pieces of gold, Nana? Maybe a doubloon or two? Or just a couch we can crash on with adjoining shower?”

“Jughead,” Betty warns.

He leans over the table, resting his elbows on it to speak into her ear. “Don't worry about your payment. I have something to show you,” he mutters. “Let’s get out of here, and I promise we’ll get some food at least.”

“If you need a place to stay,” Nana Blossom flutes in her cracked old-lady voice, “you could always use my husband’s room. He bought one at a large hotel to use in perpetuity. It is kept vacant for I want to check in, which I can’t do. Not anymore.”

Betty’s eyes widen. “You mean you have a hotel room? Could we really borrow it?” She bounds out of the booth to do a quick twirl on one toe. “Forget gold - _that_ can be my wages.” She stops fluttering for a moment. “Is this really true?”

“Oh, yes. My husband used to take me there when I needed a change of scenery.”

A feeling of impending doom slides over Jughead like a raw egg cracked open on his neck. “Where is this hotel?” he asks. “What is it called? Don’t tell me it’s a by-the-hour flophouse with condom machines in the hall.”

“It is not that dreadful Centerville Hostel, if that's what you mean.” Nana Blossom shudders. “My husband always demanded the height of luxury.” In the middle of Pop’s Diner, the old woman in the creaking wheelchair tilts up her chin proudly. For one moment Jughead can see her ruined beauty and how lovely she must have been as a girl. “Our room is in the Five Seasons. Tell me, young man, have you heard of it?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's hungry.

Jughead emerges from the longest, hottest shower of his life in a Five Seasons bathrobe. Betty sits on the smaller bed in a matching robe and thumbs one corner of the cigar box, which is still wrapped in its plastic shroud and lying on a towel. “You look curious,” he teases.

She looks up at him, face bright with a wide grin. “It’s been buried for so long and transcended a universe. I can’t wait to see what’s inside, even if it’s just mud and snail shells.”

“I believe we’ll have the princely sum of 13 dollars.” He plunks on the mattress next to her.

“That’s enough to buy bread and peanut butter. Tuna if we’re careful, and a bag of apples.”

“Ugh, don’t talk about food. I’m starving.”

She grins and offers him a silver package. “Our last granola bar. Are you ready for a princely feast?”

“Granola bars, yay. Remind me not to eat them for at least a decade when we get back.” Jughead demolishes his half in one bite and watches as Betty nibbles her portion. “No, don’t pretend you’re not hungry and don’t want yours. You’ve been slaving away for the aristocracy and need food just as much as I do, more, even.”

“Juggie!” Betty’s eyes gleam in the watery light from the bedside lamp. “Turning down food for me, this is so sudden, I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m not sure if we can actually classify this rectangular concoction of fruit and oats as food, but if it wins me gentleman points I’m all in.” Jughead nudges her. “Ready to open the box? Madam, you do the honors.”

Under Betty’s careful fingers, the layers of plastic peel away to reveal the cigar box. It’s rusted at the seams but otherwise intact. She pulls up the sulky lid, brushes aside another few layers of plastic, and stops.

They freeze at the sight of the contents. Jughead’s 13 dollars have somehow morphed into piles of money – rolls of what look like twenties and fifties. They’re packed together like a litter of green piglets, smelling of age and disuse.

“Are they real?” Betty whispers. “They’re not those green blanks I found in my wallet, are they?”

“I’m no Vanderbuilt, but those bills look entirely real.” Jughead inhales and picks up one of the rolls. The money flops against his palm, wilted with years spent underground. “But I buried thirteen dollars all those years ago! I remember how much fun it would be to let Jellybean dig it up. Of course a few times I nearly caved and spent it on burgers, but…”

Betty interrupts his babbling. “Let’s count. Separate the cash by denomination. There’s a safe in the room, so we can keep the money there. Oh, Juggie,” she adds, turning to him. “Do you _really_ think it’s real? Where did it come from if you only buried 13 bucks?”

"Inflation? Money changed in our world perhaps it kept up over in this one buried in the ground and all." He looks up from the wad he’s holding to see the shine in her eyes. The sudden transition from Capable Betty into Hopeful Young Thing is almost too much. They stare at each other in a breathless moment, and Jughead feels his heart squeeze painfully into itself. It’s nothing he’s ever experienced before.

Then Betty breaks off and begins to exclaim over the cash. “Fifties! I’ve only seen a few of them before. We can buy extra clothes! And tuna! And cheese, maybe even a few chocolate bars! Let’s count it up, and I’ll put on those wet clothes over there to go shopping.” She indicates the long line of damp garments steaming slightly over the heat vent.

“Betty.” Jughead touches the small of her back. “I’m all in for a diet of whey and gruel tomorrow. But there’s a big, glossy, convenient menu right under the house phone, and I bet the Five Seasons makes real steak and mashed potatoes and ice cream. I think, just this once, we deserve to splurge.”

#

The filets and milkshakes arrive on a real room-service cart complete with sparkling cider in a bucket and a little vase of flowers. There’s a basket of assorted rolls. Peas and corn swoon under a mist of melted butter. They're flanked by two salads, which Jughead pushes towards Betty. Slices of apple and pecan pie. And in one corner, he finds a complimentary box of chocolates with Five Seasons scrawled across its fancy ribbon.

“For you.” He presents Betty with the flowers plucked out of the little jug. “Here’s to getting stranded in Nightmare Town with the best possible partner.”

“My goodness!” She selects a daisy and sticks it behind her left ear. “You must be faint from hunger, such sentimental talk…”

They toast each other with the milkshakes. Jughead eats his steak and, when she flags, the rest of Betty’s plate. He finishes the bread, the pie, the potatoes. As she spoons up her ice cream with delicate precision, she tells him about her day: how she dusted piles of old wax recordings, sorted them into stacks, did the same with a library’s worth of books, polished a dragon’s lair worth of silver, and figured out a new filing system for everything. “Nana had records of Caruso,” Betty says between slurps. “Not to mention the coolest knick knacks. A silver harp, Jug! And a silver fish that ran on clockwork to look like it’s swimming through water! It’s not working now, but I bet I could take it apart and fix it for her.”

“You’re going back?”

“Sure. She gave us a home in this hotel for a few days. The least I can do is sort out her belongings. Oh, and she lives in the most mysterious place you can imagine, an old house covered with ivy and real wavy glass windows…”

After a solid hour of pure food joy, he’s just able to nibble a truffle before gasping and falling back on the bed. “Whew! My stomach must have shrunk after a day of sniffing crumbs. Time was I could eat everything on that cart, crack my knuckles, and order a few pizzas.”

“Must be the hours of starvation.” Betty collapses next to him and closes her eyes. “Gosh, that was good. I was hoping to save the pie for breakfast, but – oh well. I’ll get up early and go to the store.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Jughead feels sleep roll across his skull like a downed ten-pin, and he groans before getting up. “You stay here. I’ll take the other crib.”

“Oh!” Betty’s eyes fly open. “I didn’t think – oh. Of course.” And when he pads to the bathroom, she calls after him. “Where are you going?”

“To brush my teeth,” Jughead answers. She slumps against the pillows, and a sudden impulse makes him go back, pull the blankets over her, and tweak her nose. He can see slumber track across her eyes like a silent fox in the snow.

“G’night, Betts.”

“Good night, Juggie.”

#

He wanders through dreamscapes of blue faces and red blood, lost in a tide of furious ghouls. A knife snicks by his ear, and a woman hisses that she’ll cut off what belongs to her, that his heroism is meaningless, that they’re coming for Betty next.

Jughead sits up and feels a weight on the bed. A shriek tears from his throat, until the shape moves and places one hand on his arm. “It’s me, Juggie. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Betty.” He collapses back on the bed. “Guess I was having a nightmare. Uh, what are you doing? Everything okay?”

“Sure!” she chirps.

“Betts.” He knows he doesn’t have to ask and she’ll know what he means.

A sigh heaves out as though wrested from her soul, and Betty paws his shoulder. “I had a nightmare about a killer wearing a black hood. And then I realized it was me – _I_ was the killer, Jug. It freaked me out, and I couldn’t go back to sleep.”

There’s something pressing about her, as though she wants something. Archie has always said Jughead is smart except when it comes to one subject, and with a singing thrill he realizes she’s asking to sleep in his bed. Jughead throws back the blankets and beckons vaguely. “Say, do you wanna…”

“Oh yes Juggie that’s perfect just what I needed thanks so much.” Betty slithers into the sheets and blows out a breath. “Sorry. I won’t take up much room. But I kept seeing the eyes through that hood staring at me, and then I felt weird, like I’d seen it before.”

“Hm.” Jughead knows what she means. “I feel a little off myself. You must promise never to tell my mother that I said this, but could be we ate too much before going to sleep.”

Her giggle charms the darkness. It’s pure Betty Cooper, and Jughead nudges her. “You know, I won’t bite. If you edge any further away you’ll be dangling in the fold of the blanket.”

With a pleased little hum Betty flips and starfishes onto him so thoroughly they become a Cooper-Jones sandwich. “You know what the worst part of my dream was?” Her voice is slow as cold maple syrup.

“What?”

“The hooded figure was in this version of Riverdale, but _you_ were nowhere to be found. I was all alone, even though I looked for you everywhere. It made me feel as though – as though I had swallowed a shadow.”

Jughead feels the hair stand up on his arms. Something’s happening to him, a new and entirely unexpected feeling. He’s always liked Betty, even proposed to her a few times when the writers allowed it. But now it seems they’re joined in ways he’s never imagined. Carefully he wraps one arm around her shoulder to draw her closer, and she rubs her nose against his chest.

“Okay?” he whispers, and she giggles that yes, now she’s very much okay. Jughead’s heart drums in his chest, and he thinks of her dream. What if he had arrived in this world all alone? He’d be sleeping on the floor of that horrible bowling alley surrounded by ghosts and the howling wind.

“Betts.” It seems vital that he tells her just a little bit of what’s on his mind. “Last night in the bunker I – well, I sort of kissed your hair.” She goes up on one elbow to stare at him, and Jughead begins a long stream of verbal spew. “It wasn’t really a kiss. You fell asleep and I just wondered what it would feel like if I touched your hair. Except I touched it with my lips. Is that bad? I should have asked you first. I took advantage. I’m sorry.”

Betty doesn’t reply. Instead, she separates a long ringlet and brushes it against his mouth. “Like this?”

“Yes. Like that.”

“Well, how does it feel?”

“Oh.” Jughead’s throat closes in on itself, and he coughs. “Uh, soft and smooth and stuff.”

“And this?” Betty brushes long fingers over his bottom lip.

“Pruney,” Jughead blurts. He waits for a second, cursing himself. The tiny little soft moment between them explodes with one stupid comment, all because he has to be a wisecrack.

She laughs. “Okay. Although I do want to point out that I moisturized before, during, and after my shower.”

“Pruney _and_ slippery. Come here, you hydrated wench.” He pulls her close, and she relaxes against his chest. Her tiny snore curls into the night, but Jughead lies awake and stares at the paneled ceiling for a long, long time.

#

The light seeps through the hotel windows like dirty water, hailing another rainy day in Riverdale. Jughead frowns and is about to fold the pillow over his head like a blindfold-burrito when he sees Betty struggling into her sweater. “Damn it,” she curses. “Damn, damn, damn.”

“What’s wrong?”

She turns quickly and nearly overbalances. “Sorry! I didn’t want to wake you. Just thought I’d run out and find some breakfast.” A violent shudder shakes her, and she slumps on the bed like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

“Betty!” Jughead leaps out of the blankets and bounds to her side. “Gosh, I thought you were going to fall down for a second. Are you okay? You don’t look okay.”

She shivers again. “’M fine. Just cold, that’s all. Must be the morning air.”

“But you’re not fine, though.” He frowns at the hectic flush on her cheeks and places his palm over Betty’s forehead. “And you’re burning up. You must have caught a cold yesterday in all that – Betty! Those clothes you’re wearing are still wet!”

Ignoring her protests, Jughead manages to half-lift, half-drag her back to bed before pulling off the chilled jeans, the clammy sweater, the shirt waxy with damp. He ignores Betty’s protests and babbles nonsense as he works just to lull her into cooperation. “You kidding me right now? You’re not going anywhere other than back to bed. Look, here’s your nice warm robe so you’ll be decent. Gosh, I sound like a maiden aunt, don’t I? Great-Auntie Jughead, who knew? I’ll go and find us food, although I really should hunt a doctor somehow…”

“No.” Betty’s hot fingers clench painfully on his elbow. “No doctors. They might figure out we’re different and don’t belong here. Promise me, Juggie. No doctor, no nurse, no interfering adults of any kind.”

To soothe her, he agrees. In reality she’s acting most unlike herself. The Betty he knows was always the first one to call a responsible figure of authority, but she’s right. They _are_ different from everyone else in this crazy world. Instead he promises to be as quick as he can, that he’ll find a store and buy the cheapest, most sensible, most tasteless food ever canned or crammed into a plasti-pack.

Except, Jughead amends silently as he squishes into his own wet clothes, he’ll also find some hot tea for Betty. And aspirin. And he’ll order homemade chicken soup no matter how much it costs.

He peels off a few bills, replaces their stash in the room safe, and stuffs a plastic room key card into his back pocket. Jughead is just about to sneak out when Betty sits up on the bed and calls his name. “Jug? Where are you?” Her voice splinters with panic.

Jughead runs back to her, flops across the bed, and eases her back under the covers. “I’m right here. Just have to go out and get a few things, but I’ll be back in a jiffy. I promise.”

“Don’t want you to go.” Her fist in his shirt tightens with the stubborn strength of the sick. “Don’t want to be alone, don’t leave me alone.”

“Hey, hey.” Carefully he smoothes back her hair. “I don’t want to leave you either. But we need some breakfast, and I’m pretty sure a little medicine would do you some good.”

“Medicine.” Another violent shudder shakes Betty.

“I don’t mean yucky medicine, Betts. Some special Jughead-medicine.”

“Oh.” After a moment, Betty nods. Jughead considers her lashes, how they look shockingly dark against the pale skin. Gently he gets up, backs to the door, and sneaks out. The last sight he has is Betty’s slender shape, motionless in the large hotel bed.

#

Jughead stumbles off the ornate elevator, following the other passengers – a woman hiding a black eye behind sunglasses, her thuggish husband whose head looks like a prickly fireplug, their twin daughters. This sullen family has spent the ride crowded in the opposite corner, either ignoring or side-eyeing him like everyone else in this unfriendly world. He’s nearly used to it by now. But at the end, one of little girls pointed to him and asked in the loud voice of the very young, “Hey, who’s that funny man?”

At that moment, his stomach had rebelled, and it felt as though they rose in the gold cage instead of sinking to the ground floor. He had nearly passed out, the sensation had been so strange.

“May I help you, sir?” An obsequious porter with an actual pillbox hat stops him. “Begging your pardon, but you look lost.”

“You can see me?” Jughead stops and tries to recapture some semblance of dignity. The heartbreaking smell of crispy bacon helps to revive him. “Never mind. Say pal, is there a grocery store close by?”

“We have an 8-13 convenience store attached to the hotel. But,” the porter continues, “if you’re looking for breakfast we have a buffet set up in the dining room. It’s included with the room, of course.”

“Oh!” So that’s where the tempting smell of bacon comes from. Jughead nods at the porter and follows his nose to where a small crowd of people mill buzz over silver chafing dishes and long trays filled with food. As he approaches he sees all kinds of fruits, breads, pastries as well as sausage and toast and eggs. And bacon, mountains of it.

It’s tempting to shovel up luxurious eggs Benedict or a steaming omelet fresh from the pan, but Jughead knows that when it comes to their slender resources he has to be careful. And so he picks up a tray to load it with bagels and muffins and little cups of peanut butter. Apples go into the pocket of his hoodie, followed by packs of crackers and miniature cartons of milk. He takes envelopes of oatmeal, pats of butter, dishes of cream cheese, Betty's cup of tea.

And because he can’t help himself, Jughead fills one plate with bacon and balances it on top of the loot.

He carries the treasure with great care back to the elevator and gets on. One other passenger enters, and the doors close.

_If I play my cards right we won’t have to spend money on food at all,_ Jughead exults. _We can use our cash to buy extra clothes – new skivvies and a spare shirt would be really good – as well as some equipment to help us find a way back._

“Hey, don’t I know you?” Jughead nearly drops his tray. The other passenger is a kid with hair as black as his own, thin lips pressed into a smile. “You’re that Serpent King, right?”

He recognizes that mocking tone. “Nick St. Clair,” Jughead states.

“Yeah. Hey, that’s one fucking huge load of food. Let me guess, the night’s activities make you extra hungry.” Somehow the kid manages to make a wink seem like a sleazy insult. “Never mind – I remember now. You’re always starving. So, are you here with that blond student-of-the month who always has a stick up her ass? Or did you find some real tail?”

Fury pours down Jughead’s throat like liquid silver. He could throw the tray into Nick’s face, jam one knee between the bastard’s legs, and throttle him. It would be really satisfactory, but it would also mean a lot of trouble and the loss all that food. Instead he swallows and stares at the closed doors of the elevator, laced with gold and serpentine.

The lift stops with a jerk. “Time to go give my harem a third go-round.” Nick helps himself to Jughead’s bacon and jams a strip into his mouth. The doors close on his face, pleated in a filthy wink.

“I’ll jam my boot up your backside the next time I see your ugly mug,” Jughead tells the wall. “Talk about Betty like that again and I’ll cut out your tongue. ‘Give the harem a third go-round’!” he adds in a hideous, mocking falsetto. “Yeah, right. You wouldn’t be able to satisfy a library card requirement, Nick St. Toilet-Chair.”

Jughead steps off the elevator and stalks to the room, still lecturing an imaginary St. Clair. He’s never felt angrier or more energized. Usually he’s the one who sits back and watches the drama. But at this moment he wants – he wants, he wants.

He wants.

The keycard goes into the door, and Jughead slams it shut with the flat of one sneaker. Tray gets slammed onto the tiny table. Quick scan of the room. All is well, except the bed is empty.

“Betty?” When has his voice sounded so desperate?

She shimmers out of the bathroom, both arms raised to fix her earring. A painter could sit and capture her thus: _Portrait of a Beauty_. “Hey, you.” Betty smoothes her shirt. “Did you find some breakfast? I felt better, so I decided to get up. Want to go out after we eat and find a secondhand store for some cheap duds? We’ll go stir-crazy if we stay in here any longer.”

“I want to,” Jughead says. He pulls off his hat and flings it onto the bed before striding up to her. Betty’s eyes widen as he crooks his finger under her chin and tips it up. “I want to.”

It all seems to slide together, here in this strange world. There’s no one watching them, no one to say _No no, that’s not allowed! Cut that out!_ No one from their universe even knows they are here, and as a result they can do anything they want, here in the space between the comic panels.

With new freedom surging in his heart, Jughead bends and kisses her. It’s open-mouthed, and he sucks her lower lip into his mouth before biting gently. Betty gasps, her breath sweet inside his, and he does it again.

He’s even hungrier than he thought.


	4. Chapter 4

He’s kissed her before in various stories, but the writers have always sprinkled on Deus Ex Machina galore. Jughead and Betty have navigated tasty lipgloss, a confused Cupid, complicated schemes to win Archie’s attention. He’s swept her into an old-fashioned dip, and she’s kissed him, covering his face in lipstick until he could barely remember his name. But it’s never been like this: Jughead cupping her face with both hand while Betty goes on tiptoe to wind her arms around his neck. Her lips are soft, so soft, and when she sighs his name, “Juggie,” the taste makes his mouth water.

No wonder he’s always so hungry. He’s been waiting for this.

“Betty,” Jughead groans and pulls her into a hug so fierce they fall onto the mattress, tumbled among sleep-warm sheets and the discarded hotel robes.

In bed. They’re in bed together. They’ve slept side-by-side for two nights now, but this is different. Jughead’s skin tingles with pressure and awareness and so much hunger. Betty slides onto her back, and he rolls on top.

Jughead threads his fingers through golden hair and kisses her neck. “Mmm, I like that,” Betty says. “Wow, that’s – wow. You’re amazing. You’re a secret treasure. How did you get so good at kissing?”

“Don’t know. Maybe it’s because, you know. Because of you. You taste so sweet.”

Her lips part, probably to blab some more or make a typical Betty joke, except Jughead gets the first taste of her tongue. Breath splintering on his cheek, heat hammering in his chest. He feels her thighs part, making it easier to slip closer.

He’s so very close.

Her breath is warm against his ear, his hair, his neck. And then she stops, makes a little hum that could be either pleasure or pain. Jughead braces himself on his elbows and looks down, prepared to do whatever she asks.

“Listen.” Betty pushes against his chest and sits up. “I – I’m feeling kind of weird. We should stop, maybe.”

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed, but she’s got to take the lead. “Oh, gosh. Of course!” He springs off her and inchworms to the farthest corner of the bed, gabbling a long string of apologies.

“It’s okay.” She pats the pillow beside her, and gingerly Jughead crawls back. “Truth is,” Betty confides, “I didn’t want to stop. But you’re making my head whirl. Maybe we should talk first.”

“Talk? I can talk.” Jughead searches for a topic and settles on his usual. “Didja know they have a huge breakfast buffet downstairs in this place? And it’s all free. I got us enough provisions to last until dinner if we’re careful. So now we can buy necessities with our money instead.”

“Change of clothes,” Betty adds thoughtfully. “A map of the town, perhaps some information.”

“I was thinking the same thing.” He’s also wondering if she’s changed her mind, if she’d rather have Archie there instead of him. But she looks up with a smile so bright and filled with trust that Jughead forgets about redheads called Andrews.

She turns, settles herself into a comfortable position, and takes both of his hands in hers. “I’ve also been wondering what will happen when we return. If we return.”

“If?”

She rubs the back of his fist with her thumb. “If we go back, we’ll lose control. It’s scary here, but we’ve been able to choose what to do next and how to survive. We’re living on our own terms for the first time.” He opens his mouth, but Betty continues in a rush of words. “But we can’t. That’s what you’re about to say. Right? My parents, your parents, not to mention Jellybean and Polly and Chic and our friends…”

“And Nana Blossom said we’re in the wrong world. Which’ll make us go through that thing she called the Unwinding.” Unable to help himself, Jughead raises her palms to kiss them: left, right, left. “And I don’t know what she means, but Unwinding doesn’t sound like a tubing trip down the river if you know what I mean.”

Betty nods fervently and climbs onto Jughead’s lap. “Oh, I know. I know. There’s no reason to stay, and every reason to find a way back. It’s just been so nice these past few days, even though it’s been awful as well. No food, sleeping underground, the big Skull monster in the woods, but through it all you’ve been there. We got to think for ourselves, and I really liked that.”

“I liked it too.” Jughead shifts and in one move pulls off his ever-present hat. “Hey, Betty, check it out. I can even do this.”

Her face lights up, and she reaches back to pull the ribbon out of her hair so the ponytail falls around them like a bright curtain. “And I can do this.”

“Very nice.” He searches for his next words with great care, pushing her curls aside so he can look straight into her eyes. “You know, just now, when we were kissing and stuff. It felt as though…I felt…” It's embarrassing to explain. 

“I know what sex is, Juggie,” Betty chides gently, pulling up his chin so she can look directly into his eyes. “It happened once between Archie and V, remember?”

“Did it?” Jughead doesn’t want to talk about past storylines. Just the thought of those plots makes him disoriented, as though he just stepped out of a huge blender. “I know what it is too. Just not sure I could ever – well. No, that’s not what I mean. If it ever does happen, with anyone…”

_It’ll be you._

#

Betty’s tea is lukewarm, but she drinks it anyway. They eat fruit, cream cheese and bagels, Jughead’s plate of bacon. In the middle of breakfast, he realizes he wants coffee and lots of it. Luckily there’s a brew pot in the tiny hallway, and he makes the first of several cups.

As he picks up the mug, a sharp knock startles Jughead and makes him slosh scalding liquid over his sleeve. Cursing, he dabs at the stained shirt while opening the door.

A flattened dumpling of a woman brandishes a feather duster. Her pink dress and sashed apron add to the effect of a human pastry topped with sugar icing.

“Clean?” the maid asks.

“What?” Jughead shakes off his confusion. “Oh, no. We’re busy. Busy busy busy, my partner and I. Business partner, of course. Business proposals, actually. Ahhh – we’re considering investing in rental chickens. Huge market out there, huge.” He realizes he’s babbling and stops.

But the doughy maid doesn’t seem to notice. She just shrugs, asks if he wants towels, and hands over a neat stack.

“Okay then!” Relief throbs through Jughead’s voice. “We’ll be busy all day! With those chickens! No need to come back!”

“Yah, yah.” The maid trudges off, her large bottom swaying.

Grinning, Jughead locks the door and sniffs the coffee. “Don’t know why I want caffeine so much. Usually I want orange juice, iced tea, heck I’ve been known to drink root beer with breakfast. But a big cup of black coffee just sounds so appealing right now.”

Betty doesn’t answer. There’s a dull thump in the room behind him, followed by a few gurgles. Jughead spins and sees her lying on the floor, arms and legs spread like the limbs of a broken doll. Her back arches, head whipping back and forth.

The towels drop to the carpet. Jughead’s never actually seen anyone have a seizure, but Betty is definitely in the throes. Forgetting the coffee, the door, everything but the girl in front of him, he jumps to her side. “Sweetheart, no no no, don’t leave me, please don’t leave me,” he babbles. Another series of tremors shakes her body, and terror spikes through him. “I’m here. Me. Jughead. I’m here. I’m – I’m going to – I’m going to – I’m going to help you. Whatever it takes. Whatever you need. Here for you, sweetheart, forever. Stay with me, Betts.”

Maybe the words help. She stops shaking, and slowly her fists relax. She blows out a long breath, and slowly Betty’s eyes focus on his face.

Jughead collapses beside her, his heart doing a paso doble. “Doctor,” he gasps. “Hospital. We have to go.”

“Doctor,” Betty repeats. “For me or for you?”

“At this moment I’m not sure.” He makes a gargantuan effort and gets up on one elbow. “You of course. We have to call an ambulance.”

“Ambulance!” Betty sits up and scooches closer. “That was weird. Yes, I know I said that already, but it was. Really, really weird. It felt like I was coming apart from the inside.”

This makes him sit straight up. “Unwinding,” Jughead exclaims.

“Yes. I’m thinking no hospital. I’m thinking it was just a blip. I’m thinking I’ll be fine.”

“I’m thinking you have to get checked out,” Jughead insists. “And don’t give me that look. Call me stubborn and mule-headed if you want, but you had a seizure, Betts – oh, Betts. Sweetheart.” A tear slides down her cheek, and he’s horrified that he might have said too much. “Look. I just want to take care of you.”

She flings her arms around his neck and sobs into his ear, “The Unwinding. Nana Blossom was right. Which means we don’t have time for doctors or hospitals or anything other than getting home.”

#

When they dress and head out onto the street, the shadowy pedestrians avoid them and step out of their way. Jughead tries to talk to a girl in cheerleading shorts, but she flinches and walk-runs to the shelter of a coffee shop. Same with the guy with LOVE DIES tattooed across his neck and the businessman clasping a briefcase to his chest. They all avert their gazes and hurry off, the suit muttering that he needs a day off and he’s seeing things.

“Guess we’re back to ghost status,” Jughead comments. “Want to get spooky and haunt a thrift store with me since you refuse all medical care?”

Betty slips her arm through his. “There’s nothing I’d enjoy more.”

#

The secondhand shop sits back in a tiny alley off the main drag. “Ned’s Junk?” Betty squints at the sign. “That’s the name he went with? Probably Ned didn’t think that one through.”

“Betty Cooper!” Delighted, Jughead places one hand on her hip and guides her inside. “Did you just…”

She winks and immediately becomes absorbed in a rack of shirts. “Want a sweatshirt with kittens on a boat? No? Your loss. Ooh, Kiss concert memorabilia. Ooh, fringed suede vest.”

While Betty exclaims her way through the hangers, Jughead turns to a shelf filled with hats. The shop seems to be deserted, so he swipes off the beanie and tries on a knight’s plumed helm, some cat-ear headbands, a moth-eaten bowler hat. Behind the bowler Jughead sees a scowling face, gray as death and topped with a pair of sharp horns. He yelps, drops the hat, and steps back into Betty’s arms.

“Look, Juggie, I actually found you an S-shirt – hey, what’s wrong?”

His heart decides it won’t, after all, leap out of his chest. “Handsome Harry over there nearly made me swallow my own tongue. Seems to be the head of one of those stone squatty things you see on cathedrals and such.”

“Gargoyles.” Betty nods and picks up the head by one of its horns. “It looks real, right? But it’s just painted plaster.”

He’s about to take it from her and put it back, but a shout from the dark depths of the shops startles them. “Hey!” a female voice calls. “Who the hell is in there? We’re closed, just like the sign says.” Sure enough, when Jughead turns he sees a withered piece of cardboard dangling from knotted shoelaces: SHUT FOR REPAIRS.

Betty cups one hand around her mouth to shout back . “Okay if we just buy these items? Cash?”

“Who’s out there?” the voice repeats. “I’m calling the cops! Had it up to here with you kids!”

“We’re invisible again. How plot-convenient.” Jughead digs in one pocket, pulls out a couple of bills, and steers Betty to the door. He throws the money on a counter pitted with use and runs into the alley.

“Think I left them enough?” He peers at the hand-printed tags on the t-shirt and Betty’s garments, which are all sweaters.

She has something else in her hand. Raising both eyebrows, Jughead touches one horn of the gargoyle’s head that she’s holding. “Betts,” he adds. “You just had to buy our friend here? These impulse purchases will weigh us down, missy.”

“Huh?” She looks down. “Oh, gosh. Forgot I had this in my hand. We’d better go back and give the owner some more money. Ugh.”

“She didn’t seem too friendly,” Jughead agrees. He peers at the tag tied around the gargoyle’s left horn and flips it over.

“What do you know about that!” Betty grins and tucks the head under one arm. “It’s marked FREE. And before you ask, I _am_ going to keep it.”

#

In a dollar store they buy what Betty calls _necessities_ (“It’s underwear, Betts”) using the same Fling Money and Run method. Next door there’s a used bookstore, where Jughead finds a map of the town and some old pulpy detective novels. “Don’t want the old brain to turn to mush,” he says, eyeing the lurid covers. They feature low-lit blondes and leering villains.

“Flaming Passion,” Betty reads. “Bullet from Nowhere. That’s some quality fiction you’ve got there, Jones.”

“What’s our next step? Maybe head over to the bowling alley to search for clues?”

Her smile disappears. “I suppose we should, right?”

“Listen.” Jughead cups Betty’s face. “If we get back – when we get back – we’ll find a way to be together. I know we’re going to have to work through more storylines we don’t like, but there are always those spaces between the panels. We’ll find those together.”

“Do you promise?”

He’s about to say yes, he promises, but something’s wrong. A line of red appears at Betty’s nostril and spears her upper lip, making her frown and dab at her face with one knuckle.

Panic seizes his chest. “Betty, we’re going to find a doctor. I don’t care if people won’t listen to us or try to run away. I’ll – I’ll corner them and make them help us. You need medical attention.”

Jughead expects her to argue with him, since that’s what Betty does. She ignores what she needs. She worries about other people, never herself. But perhaps she truly does feel the time / travel / dimension illness running through her, because she nods. “Okay,” Betty says. “I’ll go. But we should start at Thistle House. Nana Blossom will be able to find me a doctor, and we can actually talk to her.

#

“I do know a young man who can help.” The old lady offers a silver plate with four exquisitely iced cakes and humphs when Jughead takes two. “He’s a bit eccentric, but Dr. Curdle will do what people want – for a price.”

“Can you call him?” Jughead asks through a mouthful of angelfood.

“He’s already on his way. I knew you’d come back here eventually.” Nana Blossom wheels over to a wind-up Victrola. A series of notes tinkle out in some minor key, childish and tragic. “You’ve already changed in ways you can’t even understand, both of you.”

“I know,” Jughead groans. “Betty already told me. The moles, my nose…”

“I was talking about her.” Nana Blossom opens a drawer and produces a hand mirror, so spotted with age it’s nearly opaque.

“Betty?” He wheels around. “She hasn’t…” The words die in his throat. Now that the woman has mentioned it, Betty does look different. More serious, as though she hides dark thoughts under her bubbly personality and blonde hair.

“I woke up in the middle of the night,” Betty muses. “Caught sight of my face in the mirror, and I didn’t recognize it. Pretty weird, right? I wanted to tell myself to stop being a ditz!”

Under her forced laugh lurks the deep horror of losing one’s identity. Jughead knows this nearly as well as he knows the lines in his fingertips. He’s about to say that he doesn’t think she’s changed, except what he really wants to say is sappy and entirely unlike him.

What he wants to say is this: He’ll know her anywhere, no matter where they go or what she looks like.

“What’s wrong, Jug? You have this funny look, like you’ve got bad gas or something.” Betty draws breath, probably to expound on this theme, but the door opens and ends their strange conversation.

“Ah, Dr. Curdle.” Nana Blossom beams. “We’ve been expecting you.”

The man is tall but otherwise nondescript. He has beige hair and skin the color of a fish’s underbelly, as though he spends all day indoors. Dr. Curdle goggles at them, frowns, and sets a flat leather case on one of the tiny tables scattered around the cluttered parlor. He unzips it, removes a hypodermic, and rolls up his sleeve. Without any hesitation or embarrassment, the good doctor taps one forearm and shoots up in front of everyone.

“There.” The doctor’s voice is deep and monotone.

“What is that?” Betty asks. Jughead looks at her and exclaims, alarm spiking his bones. She’s bleeding again, and more profusely. Red drips over her lips, stains her teeth, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “What did you just inject into yourself?”

“A mixture I concoct in the lab. I encounter many strange things in my line of work, and this tincture helps me… withstand them.”

Nana Blossom wheels closer and produces a handkerchief flowered with exquisite poppies and forget-me-nots, which she hands to Betty. “My dear,” she murmurs. “You need a little assistance.”

For the first time Dr. Curdle’s eyes flame with feeling. “I can give you medicine for that,” he continues in that dead, dry voice. “My injections will help you stay here longer, slow down the effects of the Unwinding.”

He produces a glass bottle stoppered with a dirty cork and another syringe, the old-fashioned kind with two holes on the plunger and a needle at least an inch long. Betty gasps, but Jughead has already stepped in front of her. “There’s no way you’re putting that _stuff_ into her blood. We need real help, not quackery and faux-science!”

“You’re not supposed to be in this world.” Nana Blossom examines her own gnarled fingers, iced with crimson set in heavy silver rings.

“Being in the wrong dimension turns your system inside-out.” Dr. Curdle flashes again with some unknown emotion, as though he relishes Betty’s discomfort. “Others pick up on it. You’ve probably noticed how uneasy people get around you, unless you’re immune. Neither of you have talked to anyone other than Mrs. Blossom, correct?”

Jughead scratches the back of his neck. “’Course not. Anyway. Guess there’s no hospital ER visit in our future.” He shifts away from the memory of talking to Nick St. Clair and the cleaning lady. Just an anomaly, he tells himself. 

“Our only choice is to go back,” Betty adds. “Isn’t that right?”

Dr. Curdle shrugs. He picks up the foul bottle, uncorks it, and takes a deep swig.

“They have the key.” Nana Blossom pulls a chained ring from around her neck and swings it. “They just don’t know what it is.”

#

“Of course she can’t tell us what it is!” Jughead explodes, throwing both arms in the air. “That would be far too easy and convenient.”

“We’ll figure it out. You’re smart, and I’m stubborn.” Betty closes her eyes and collapses against the ancient upholstery of the Blossom automobile, an antique Packard that must have been gorgeous in the last century. Dr. Curdle steers it slowly through sporadic traffic, and every few feet the car delivers a loud bang of backfire. Each time Jughead and Betty are propelled forward, making him smack his nose on the seat in front.

Although it’s early evening, the mists outside are already blue with darkness. Twilight, it seems, comes early in this version of Riverdale.

The Packard stops by the graveyard, and Dr. Curdle slams on the brakes. “One last bruise,” Jughead comments, rubbing his forehead. “Thanks for that. Uh, why are we at a creepy cemetery and not the creepy bowling alley?”

“Descend here. No farther.” The doctor turns and adds, “But there’s a price for the ride. I need blood.”

Jughead frowns. There’s been no mention of a price, although they still have hundreds of dollars in the old cigar tin. “We’re medical specimens now? Fine, although you’re not allowed to touch her. Take what you need from me.” Ignoring Betty’s protests, he pulls off his jacket and rolls up one sleeve with short, angry movements. “There,” he declares. “Do what you need to do.”

It’s as though the doctor’s been waiting. He produces a glass slide and the syringe, plunges it into Jughead’s elbow, and pulls out the plunger. “Ow,” Jughead complains. “Ow, ow, ow.”

“Enough!” Betty picks up her backpack, the gargoyle’s head, and holds out her hand for Jughead. “I said – enough. We’re going. Tell Mrs. Blossom thank you, and good luck with, you know. The drugs and stuff.”

Dr. Curdle removes the needle, flicks it, and regards Jughead with his pale, unnerving gaze. “Go on,” the man says.

Jughead doesn’t wait. He jumps out, holds out a hand to help Betty, and slings her backpack over one shoulder. Dr. Curdle doesn’t wait either – the car peels out with a screech of rubber and another reveille of backfire shots. As it disappears around a curve, Jughead gives it the finger.

“Sorry,” he adds. “But fuck that guy, you know?”

Her eyes widen before she bursts into a peal of laughter that ends in a fit of coughing into Nana Blossom’s hanky. When it’s done, he can see a constellation of red spots spangling the embroidered flowers.

“The bowling alley was around the corner, near Midge’s… you know. Near Midge’s headstone,” Betty gasps. “And I can carry my own backpack.”

“Fuck that too.” He settles the pack more firmly and waits for her to take his arm. “I’m not a profane man, sweetheart, but sometimes circumstances call for more than a Gee Whillikers.”

“I think the F bomb is perfectly suited to this place.” Betty stops and points. “There. I can see the graffiti and the back door. Let’s see if we can figure out how to reopen it and what Nana Blossom meant by the key.” She stops and adds, “Jug, I don’t feel so good.”

“Almost there. I promise. Almost there, sweetheart.” Jughead pulls her close, half-carrying her between the lines of graves like snaggled teeth, ready to bite.

The bowling alley leers in the middle of the swirling fog. Its strange graffiti is visible, a cornered U turned upside-down, the triangle with three dots. He’s certain the signs are a code, but there’s no time to figure out what it means.

“Triangle,” Betty coughs. “Seen it before.”

Of course. Of course they have.

“You’re a genius.” Jughead rips open the backpack and withdraws her bowling ball, the thing they’ve been carrying around the entire time. It still bears the dotted triangle. “But what do we do with it?”

She gestures to the door, too overcome to speak. Spooling a long litany of mental pleas, Jughead reaches out and twists the handle. His surge of relief is followed by panic. The inside of the bowling alley is dim and deserted, and Clementine still crackles over the old speaker.

Betty gestures to the alley. “You need to throw it,” she whispers. “Make it a good one, Juggie.”

“Okay.” He picks up the ball, hefts it, and peers into the alley. “But where… oh. I think I get it.”

There are three pins grouped near one of the old benches. He’d bet anything that’s his target.

_Please please please._

Jughead fits second and ring fingers into the ball. He hefts it carefully, measures the distance, and prepares to bowl.

It’s not his finest hour. At the last minute, a thick vine nearly trips him, and the throw is wonky. Jughead watches the ball clonk onto the pitted floor, roll forward between the lanes, and head to the bench. He holds his breath. The ball touches the first pin. It wavers, rocking on its base.

“Oh, come on!” he cries out. “Come on! For her, at least …” His words stop. The pin falls, hits the second, which hits the third.

With a slight pop, the speaker stops playing Clementine.

Betty and Jughead eye each other. “Guess we have to go and see if anything changed,” he says. “Um, after you, madam.” She smiles, grimaces, and struggles to her feet. Betty steps into the strange doorway, and he’s right behind her, both hands spanning her trim waist. Whispering encouragement, _This is it, just like that, we’re almost home, going to get you some help right away, only a few more steps Sweetheart…_

And then the lights go out.

The darkness is so thick and black it makes green spots flash in front of his eyes. Perhaps Betty stumbles, or they just lose each other for a second. She slips out of his hands, and he says her name.

He says her name: Betty. Betty Cooper.

There’s another pop, and the speaker comes to life with a long whine of protest. _Oh my darling,_ it gurgles. _Oh my darling._

Fear licks his throat, a hideous foretaste of bile and metal. Because he knows. Jughead knows.

The neon light flickers on to reveal the inside of the alley: pitted, impossibly old, filled with abandoned pins and bowling balls. The speaker hangs from a wire, spilling its intestinal loop of sound.

Other than Jughead, Riverdale Bowl is deserted. Betty has disappeared.

He screams her name and scrambles forward. There’s nothing behind the benches, the smashed cigarette machine, the old claw game machine. Nothing in the bathrooms, the snack bar, the shoe rental desk.

Maybe outside?

Jughead stumbles the way they came, back into the dark version of Riverdale. It hasn’t changed: the far-away dumpster seems permanently on fire, and he can see Midge Klump’s headstone. Although he calls again and again, there’s no response.

He collapses on the ground, a puppet whose strings have been cut. Overcome with weakness, he puts Betty’s backpack next to him and leans on it, a lumpy pillow. In his chest, everything feels tight.

And his face is wet, and he reaches up to touch his upper lip.

Although the night is already dark and there’s no moon, Jughead knows the color of the liquid staining his shaking fingertips.

Red. The color of blood.


	5. Chapter 5

The rain tails off with one final, spiteful burst of wind. Overhead clouds scrub the moon clean until it peeks out: a sulky child behind heavy curtains. “Hey,” Jughead says. “Hey there, Moon. Bet you’ve never seen such a sorry sight as this, a skinny kid who’s lost his ticket home. And his best girl. All in one night.”

 _Sorry,_ the moon seems to say. _Suck it up._

Jughead coughs and covers his mouth with one fist. In the swirly silvery light, he can see coins of blood on his skin, crimson and black. “Don’t suppose you happen to have a key to the other side by any chance? To my hometown?”

 _Fresh out of keys._ Moon’s face is sad, maybe feeling Jughead’s desperation. _Want some dust instead?_

“Only if it’ll get a message to Betty,” Jughead slurs. Reality is shivering away from him, and for a moment he feels as though he’s about to fall down a dark and endless well.

_Who?_

“Betty,” he repeats. “Betty. Betty. Betty Cooper.” And when the moon doesn’t respond, Jughead shouts her name again with the very last of his strength. “I won’t be here much longer,” he adds. That’s for the moon’s benefit.

 _Nothing wrong with being dead,_ the moon replies. _I’ve been dead all my life._

It’s true. There’s no life on that hunk of rock, no color, no movement, no air, nothing green at all. As for Jughead – what does death even mean? _Can_ he die? Has he ever actually been alive at all? Between the panels of stories others write for him, does his existence persist into the spaces between them?

Into space itself?

If he’s gone, he doesn't have much to leave behind him. A t-shirt with the letter S, a hat, an old cigar box filled with cash, and the memory of a girl.

 _This has to be the end,_ Jughead mumbles. _If I’m thinking about this Jean-Paul Sartre stuff instead of cheeseburgers and pizza pie, then I’m truly a goner._

Just… he wishes that he could have one last sight. Of her, of the girl. Betty.

#

Someone’s calling his name, except Jughead’s certain it’s a trick, one final daydream before all the ink turns black. “…head,” he hears. “Jug. Jughead!”

Coming to reality, Jughead scrabbles in the grass and shale until he’s able to sit up. He knows that voice. “Betty?” The word comes out like a sob, like a prayer.

“Juggie!” She tumbles onto his lap, golden hair spilling over their faces. “What are you – why are you here? I thought you were back in the – but what happened? Oh God, your nose is bleeding, were you hurt? We have to get you to a doctor. Now.”

His eyelids flutter, and Jughead is able to see more clearly even through a haze of pain. She’s there in his arms, and yet…

“You’re not her.” His heart begins to drum furiously in his chest. The girl looks just like his Betty Cooper: bouncy ponytail, neat sweater, wide mouth that will melt his heart when she smiles. Still, it isn’t her, and Jughead isn’t certain how he knows. Maybe it’s a different scent, or the feel of her skin, hair a shade darker, eyes slightly greener than the Betty Cooper he knows.

“You’re not him,” the girl says at the same moment. She starts back, eyes wide and pupils darkening. “What the hell? Was there Fizzle in that Fresh-Aide? I’ve never seen – you must be – you look just like him. My Juggie. But you’re not. Is this another mindfreak? Are you Edgar or Reggie or…”

Betty Cooper 2.0 begins to stand up, but Jughead uses the last of his strength to catch her hand. “Please,” he begs. “I’m from another place. Came here with Betty – _my_ Betty. She was able to return but I got… stuck. And this world is, it isn’t, it’s…”

“It’s making you sick,” she finishes gently. The girl sits beside him once more, searches in a purse the size of a postage stamp, and produces a pack of Kleenex. With the softest of touches she wipes his face. “How can I help?”

“Probably you can’t.” Jughead closes his eyes, reality slipping away like low tide, and indicates the abandoned backpack. “Unless maybe you could give that to Nana Blossom.” The old lady could use the money, he thinks. It would pay for some of the hotel room, at least.

Riverdale's new Betty picks up the bag. Her forehead puckers in thought, a look he recognizes in his own Cooper. “You know Nana Blossom? Never mind – you need help first. Maybe – maybe a little of this would help…”

Something rustles, and a plastic straw is inserted in Jughead’s mouth. Instinct makes him drink. It’s sweet and cold, the unmistakable flavor of Pop’s strawberry milkshake popping with real fruit and ice-cream. The drink seems to flood through him, serving a jolt of strength that helps Jughead to open his eyes and sit up. “Wow,” he gasps. “That might be the best medicine ever. Well done, Doctor.”

“Think you can stand up? Maybe we can figure out a way to get you home. How did, uh, your Betty get back?”

Jughead takes her hand and climbs to his feet. “You’re not going to believe this, but we rolled a bowling ball into the old alley there. It opened a – a road or a portal for her, I guess you could say, but when I tried to follow it was closed.” He shakes his head. “I know this sounds crazy.”

“This might be one of the saner things I’ve heard today.” Betty the Second looks around. “Well, maybe if you roll another object in there it will open another path for you – woah!”

In his excitement, he bear hugs her. “Of course! Why didn’t I – but what? There’s nothing here but old beer bottles, and I’m pretty sure they won’t work.”

“Let’s see.” Betty 2.0 looks around the deserted lot with an intent expression Jughead recognizes, the same determination as the girl who has already returned to a very different Riverdale. “There has to be something that’s round, right? The essential part is rolling, like a bowling ball. Anything spherical…a rock? Nah. A tin can? Hmm. I’ll put it in the maybe pile.”

“The maybe pile,” he repeats. “Sounds mighty organized. Oh, and hey! We could check out this backpack. Betty – my Betty – had a whole crime laboratory in here.”

Betty 2.0 mumbles something about that sounding familiar. He plucks out various items: cans of tuna, a notebook, the cutest little compact ever made. One large and warty object gets in his way, and he pulls it out with a sharp little pang. It’s the gargoyle head Betty insisted on buying. The way it stares sightlessly at Jughead under brooding brows and curved horns, teeth curving up over a sneering upper lip, evokes the store where they bought it. He can smell the tang of incense, hear the annoyed voice of the woman from the back room, see the sharp and considering intelligence in Betty’s eyes when she held up her prize.

“I – where did you get that?” Betty picks up the gargoyle’s head and weighs it in one palm. “After we left Quiet Mercy, I never saw it again, yet here you are with it in your backpack.”

“Betty’s packpack,” Jughead corrects automatically. “And quiet mercy, uh, what’s that exactly?” But his vision narrows to a long tunnel with the girl at the far end, and he feels as though he’s about to faint.

She catches Jughead and props his arm around her slender shoulders. “Never mind. There’s no time. You need to get back as soon as possible. Looks like being here is killing you. And you know what? If my gargoyle head ended up here, by the law of Pavlov’s Gun it’s going to get you back to where you need to go.”

“Do you really think so?”

Betty 2.0 ignores him. She drags him to the bowling alley door and presses the grinning head into his grip. “Go on,” she urges.

Jughead manages to stand upright. With the worst bowling form known to mankind he brings the thing back, totters forward, and rolls it through the back door of the bowling lanes. One horn catches on the door, but then the head rolls inside and up to three pins by an abandoned bench. In hideous slow motion, one wobbles and brings down the other two.

The universe seems to shudder. There’s an audible pop, followed by the tinny sound of the speaker: _Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my darling Clementine…_

Wheeling around, he looks down at Betty 2.0. “It actually worked! I think the passage back just opened up. You’re a genius!”

“Well, hurry up before it closes.”

She gives him a tiny push, but he takes one moment to cup her chin with his palm. “Tell that guy who looks like me to take care of you,” Jughead says.

Her cheek dimples. “He always does. Now, and I say this with love, get the hell out of here.”

#

“Hey! What are you doing back there?”

Covered with dust and his own blood, Jughead turns from the 11 bowling pins to see Midge at the other end of the lane. Her arms are folded across her chest, the very picture of indignation. “No one’s supposed to be messing around with the … Jughead Jones! Are you hurt? What happened? This has been the strangest day ever.”

“You have no idea.” He limps down the side of the lane, nearly skidding on the slick surface. The bowling alley is no longer the dark upside-down version of itself. Jughead can smell pepperoni pizza from its snack bar, hear pop music on the loudspeakers instead of Clementine, and …

 _Midge._ She’s real, alive, no longer buried under a lonely tombstone in an alien world. A lock of hair falls over one cheek, and her fishbone earrings jingle as she shakes a large blue can marked Anti-Fungal Spray.

Jughead lurches forward and folds her into a quick hug. “Sorry about my dreadful bowling etiquette,” he slurs.

“Watch it, Jug. Moose is picking me up any minute, and if he sees us like this…”

She doesn’t need to finish. Jughead knows all about Moose’s temper when it comes to Midge. He leaps away as though she were hot lava, and in that moment he realizes he’s back. Truly back.

Jughead is no longer in the alien version of Riverdale. His life has returned with all its color and personality and – and rules. There are steadfast rules in his universe, just like the one about Moose. You don’t hug his girlfriend. You don’t stay home Friday nights. You spend summer at the beach, autumn in school. It’s a simple life made even simpler with clear laws.

And he’s about to break one, perhaps the most important rule of all. “Uh, Midge,” he begins. “Did you happen to see Betty?”

“Oh, yeah!” Midge’s pixie face crinkles into a frown. “She was nosing around here, you know how she does sometimes, and then ran out calling for Archie.”

Jughead feels his heart actually sink. Up until now he’s always felt that’s a metaphor, but inside his body there’s the sensation of falling as though his organs have become stone and are pitching over a cliff. “Archie?” he croaks.

“Yup. So, I have to get back to my shoes before closing.” Midge waves the fungal spray in his direction, but Jughead is already running to the exit.

He wrenches the door open and bounds onto the sidewalk. Overhead the sky has purpled with oncoming twilight, and knots of teens are gathered on street corners. There are Toni and Cheryl, heads bent over a phone. There’s Dilton, nose stuck in a book as usual. Reggie’s on the corner checking out Cheryl’s booty shorts.

And there stands Archie, talking to Betty Cooper. Jughead’s best friend speaks to her in a low voice, dark brows twitched together. Her eyes never leave his face. Their conversation looks unbearably intimate.

The internal gravity in Jughead’s guts forces him onto the sidewalk. He sits with a sudden bump, joy and hope whooshed out of him with an invisible giant’s fist. _What the heck is wrong with me?_ he wonders. _I’m the bored guy on a hammock watching everyone else blunder in and out of love…_

“Juggie!” The scream spears Riverdale’s main street, making Jughead and everyone look up. Before he can react, a flying blond bundle of denim and large kitten sweatshirt barrels towards him, plonks on the sidewalk, and wraps both arms around his neck.

“I thought you were gone,” Betty sobs into his neck. “Archie and I were just trying to figure out what our next move would be to get you back. We were thinking Dilton, time machines, Sabrina – crazy stuff.”

Archie? Jughead knows a guy called Archie, except right now he’s not important. Ignoring his own impressive list of wounds, he turns and plants a big one right on her lips. The force of his kiss drives them both backwards onto a little knoll of grass and elicits a surprised squeak from Betty.

 _His_ Betty. Not Betty 2.0. Jughead’s own beautiful, brave, bubbly girl.

A long wolf-whistle brings him to his senses. Jughead looks up and realizes he and Betty are lying in the center of a ring of people, all the friends he’s known forever. There’s Midge, both brows shooting up to her hairline. Archie, freckled face wrinkled in shock. Reggie, with an expression of grudging respect. Toni’s lips are pursed with humor as she hoots, “Ooooooo _ooooh!”_ in the rising tone of a dramatic operatic soprano.

“We’re making a scene.” Betty scrambles to her feet and holds out one hand.

“Sorry.” Grinning like a loon, Jughead lets her help him up. He’s definitely not sorry.

Archie’s frown deepens. He looks like a red setter being shown the ‘Disappearing Owner Behind the Blanket” trick. “Are you two, like, together now?” he demands.

Betty tilts up her chin and thrusts her arm through Jughead's. “Yes, we are. Anyone have a problem with that?”

The crowd as one man backs off. Toni winks and says something along the lines of _It’s about damn time_ before slapping Cheryl on the back and proposing milkshakes all round. Slowly, the Riverdale cast disperses, leaving Jughead and Betty alone in the center of their little universe.

“Did you mean that?” he blurts. “That we’re together?”

“Yes.” Her lips curve. “If that’s okay.”

“Hell yes, that’s okay.” He’s dirty, exhausted, and covered with bruises, but Jughead has been living for this moment. With great care he cups her face, intending to kiss her until she’s breathless.

At that moment, the air shivers and the temperature drops. Betty’s eyes widen. “Oh no. No no no no,” she laments. It’s the start of a new storyline.

“Betty.” Jughead grits his teeth and draws her closer. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to us now, but when – when it’s all over, will you meet me again? Please?”

“Meet you where?” Her voice is husky, maybe from unshed tears.

In their last moments together, he bends and whispers in her ear. “You know where. In the space between the comic frames.”

Perhaps she nods in agreement, but he can’t be sure. All he knows is the achingly familiar scent of her, like old books and spilled ink.

Thunder rumbles overhead, and a vast bolt of lightning splits the sky.

For now, their time is up.

**Author's Note:**

> (Comic characters meet Riverdale in this short multi-chapter. I'm definitely not going to have comics!Jug encounter Riverdale's version, and ditto with the two Betties. Instead, this fic is an exploration of what might happen if Betty and Jughead could escape the endless spiral they're caught in and truly find each other in an alternate universe.)


End file.
